Mr. Supine, having got rid of his pupil, went immediately to Alderman Holloway’s, where he had a general invitation to dinner. Mrs. Holloway approved of her son’s tutor, full as much for his love of gossiping, as for his musical talents: Mr. Supine constantly supplied her with news and anecdotes; upon the present occasion, he thought that his story, however imperfect, would be eagerly received, because it concerned Howard.
Since the affair of the prize essay, and the medal, Mrs. Holloway had taken a dislike to young Howard, whom she considered as the enemy of her dear Augustus. No sooner had she heard Mr. Supine’s blundering information, than, without any farther examination, she took the whole for granted: eager to repeat the anecdote to Mrs. Howard, she instantly wrote a note to her, saying that she would drink tea with her that evening.
When Mrs. Holloway, attended by Mr. Supine, went, in the evening, to Mrs. Howard’s, they found with her Mrs. B., the lady of Dr. B., the master of Westminster School.
“Is not this an odd rencontre?” whispered Mrs. Holloway to Mr. Supine, as she drew him to a recessed window, commodious for gossiping: “I shall be called a tell-tale, I know, at Westminster; but I shall tell our story, notwithstanding. I would keep any other boy’s secret; but Howard is such a saint: and I hate saints.”
A knock at the door interrupted Mrs. Holloway; she looked out of the window. “Oh, here he comes, up the steps,” continued she, “after his sober evening promenade, and his Mr. Russell with — and, I declare, the mulatto woman with him. Now for it!”
Howard entered the room, went up to his aunt, and said, in a low voice, —
“Ma’am, poor Cuba is come; she is rather tired with walking, and she is gone to rest herself in the front parlour.”
“Her lameness, though,” pursued little Oliver, who followed Howard into the room, “is almost well. I just asked her how high she thought the coach was from which she was—”
A look from Howard made Oliver stop short; for though he did not understand the full meaning of it, he saw it was designed to silence him. Howard was afraid of betraying Holloway’s secret to Mr. Supine or to Mrs. Holloway: his aunt sent him out of the room with some message to Cuba, which gave Mrs. Holloway an opportunity of opening her business.
“Pray,” said she, “might I presume to ask — for I perceive the young gentleman has some secret to keep from me, which he may have good reasons for — may I, just to satisfy my own mind, presume to ask whether, as her name leads one to guess, your Cuba, Mrs. Howard, is a mulatto woman?”
Surprised by the manner of the question, Mrs. Howard coldly replied, “Yes, madam — a mulatto woman.”
“And she is lame, I think, sir, you mentioned?” persisted the curious lady, turning to little Oliver.
“Yes, she’s a little lame still; but she will soon be quite well.”
“Oh! then, her lameness came, I presume, from an accident, sir, and not from her birth?”
“From an accident, ma’am.”
“Oh! an accident — a fall — a fall from a coach — from a stage-coach, perhaps,” continued Mrs. Holloway, smiling significantly at Mr. Supine: “you take me for a conjuror, young gentleman, I see by your astonishment,” continued she to Oliver; “but a little bird told me the whole story; and I see Mrs. Howard knows how to keep a secret as well as myself.”
Mrs. Howard looked for an explanation.
“Nay,” said Mrs. Holloway, “you know best, Mrs. Howard; but as we’re all out of school now, I shall not be afraid to mention such a little affair, even before the doctor’s lady; for, to be sure, she would never let it reach the doctor’s ears.”
“Really, ma’am,” said Mrs. Howard, “you puzzle me a little; I wish you would explain yourself: I don’t know what it is that you would not have reach the doctor’s ears.”
“You don’t? — well, then, your nephew must have been very clever, to have kept you in the dark; mustn’t he, Mr. Supine?”
“I always, you know, thought the young gentleman very clever, ma’am,” said Mr. Supine, with a malicious emphasis.
Mrs. Howard’s colour now rose, and with a mixture of indignation and anxiety she pressed both Mr. Supine and Mrs. Holloway to be explicit. “I hate mysteries!” said she. Mrs. Holloway still hung back, saying it was a tender point; and hinting, that it would lessen her esteem and confidence in one most dear to her, to hear the whole truth.
“Do you mean Howard, ma’am?” exclaimed little Oliver: “oh, speak! speak! it’s impossible Charles Howard can have done any thing wrong.”
“Go for him, my dear,” said Mrs. Howard, resuming her composure; “let him be present. I hate mysteries.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Howard,” whispered Mrs. Holloway, “you don’t consider; you’ll get your nephew into a shocking scrape; the story will infallibly go from Mrs. B. to Dr. B. You are warm, and don’t consider consequences.”
“Charles,” said Mrs. Howard to her nephew, the moment he appeared, “from the time you were five years old, till this instant, I have never known you tell a falsehood; I should, therefore, be very absurd, as well as very unjust, if I were to doubt your integrity. Tell me — have you got into any difficulties? I would rather hear of them from yourself, than from any body else. Is there any mystery about overturning a stage-coach, that you know of, and that you have concealed from me?”
“There is a mystery, ma’am, about overturning a stage-coach,” replied Howard, in a firm tone of voice; “but when I assure you that it is no mystery of mine — nothing in which I have myself any concern — I am sure that you will believe me, my dear aunt, and that you will press me no further.”
“Not a word further, not a frown further,” said his aunt, with a smile of entire confidence; in which Mr. Russell joined, but which appeared incomprehensible to Mr. Supine.
“Very satisfactory indeed!” said that gentleman, leaning back in the chair; “I never heard any thing more satisfactory to my mind!”
“Perfectly satisfactory, upon my word!” echoed Mrs. Holloway; but no looks, no inuendoes, could now disturb Mrs. Howard’s security, or disconcert the resolute simplicity which appeared in her nephew’s countenance. Mrs. Holloway, internally devoured by curiosity, was compelled to submit in silence. This restraint soon became so irksome to her, that she shortened her visit as much as she decently could.
In crossing the passage, to go to her carriage, she caught a glimpse of the mulatto woman, who was going into a parlour. Resolute, at all hazards, to satisfy herself, Mrs. Holloway called to the retreating Cuba — began by asking some civil questions about her health; then spoke of the accident she had lately met with; and, in short, by a skilful cross-examination, drew her whole story from her. The gratitude with which the poor woman spoke of Howard’s humanity was by no means pleasing to Mr. Supine.
“Then it was not he who overturned the coach?” said Mrs. Holloway.
The woman eagerly replied, “Oh no, madam!” and proceeded to draw, as well as she could, a description of the youth who had been mounted upon the coach-box: she had seen him only by the light of the moon, and afterwards by the light of a lantern; but she recollected his figure so well, and described him so accurately, that Mr. Supine knew the picture instantly, and Mrs. Holloway whispered to him, “Can it be Augustus?”
“Mr. Holloway! — Impossible! — I suppose—”
But the woman interrupted him by saying that she recollected to have heard the young gentleman called by that name by the coachman.
The mother and the tutor were nearly alike confounded by this discovery. Mrs. Holloway got into her carriage, and, in their way home, Mr. Supine represented, that he should be ruined for ever with the alderman, if this transaction came to his knowledge; that, in fact, it was a mere boyish frolic; but that the alderman might not consider it in that light, and would, perhaps, make Mr. Augustus feel his serious displeasure. The foolish mother, out of mistaken good-nature, at length promised to be silent upon the subject. But, before he slept, Alderman Holloway heard the whole story
. The footman, who had attended the carriage, was at the door when Mrs. Holloway was speaking to the mulatto woman, and had listened to every word that was said. This footman was in the habit of telling his master, when he attended him at night, all the news which he had been able to collect in the day. Mr. Supine was no favourite of his; because, whenever the tutor came to the house, he gave a great deal of trouble, being too indolent to do any thing for himself, and yet not sufficiently rich, or sufficiently generous, to pay the usual premiums for the active civility of servants. This footman was not sorry to have an opportunity of repeating any story that might injure Mr. Supine with his master. Alderman Holloway heard it under the promise of concealing the name of the person who had given him the information, and resolved to discover the truth of the affair the next day, when he was to visit his son at Westminster.
But we must now return to Mrs. Howard’s. We mentioned that Mrs. B. spent the evening with her. Dr. B., soon after Mrs. Holloway went away, called to take his lady home: he had been engaged to spend the evening at a card assembly; but, as he was a man who liked agreeable conversation better than cards, he had made his escape from a rout, to spend half an hour with Mrs. Howard and Mr. Russell. The doctor was a man of various literature; able to appreciate others, he was not insensible to the pleasure of seeing himself appreciated. Half an hour passes quickly in agreeable conversation: the doctor got into an argument, concerning the propriety of the distinction made by some late metaphysical writers, between imagination and fancy. Thence he was led to some critical remarks upon Warton’s beautiful Ode to Fancy; then to the never-ending debate upon original genius; including also the doctrine of hereditary temper and dispositions, which the doctor warmly supported, and which Mrs. Howard coolly questioned.
In the midst of their conversation, they were suddenly interrupted by a groan. They all looked round to see whence it came. It came from little Oliver: he was sitting at a little table at the farther end of the room, reading so intently in a large book that he saw nothing else: a long unsnuffed candle, with a perilous fiery summit to its black wick, stood before him, and his left arm embraced a thick china jar, against which he leaned his head. There was, by common consent, a general silence in the room, whilst every one looked at Oliver, as at a picture. Mrs. Howard moved gently round behind his chair, to see what he was reading: the doctor followed her. It was the account of the execution of two rebel Koromantyn negroes, related in Edwards’s History of the West Indies. To try whether it would interrupt Oliver’s deep attention, Mrs. Howard leaned over him, and snuffed his dim candle; but the light was lost upon him — he did not feel the obligation. Dr. B. then put his hand upon the jar, which he pulled from Oliver’s embrace. “Be quiet! I must finish this!” cried Oliver, still holding fast the jar, and keeping his eyes upon the book. The doctor gave a second pull at the jar, and the little boy made an impatient push with his elbow; then casting his eye upon the large hand which pulled the jar, he looked up, surprised, in the doctor’s face.
The nice china jar, which Oliver had held so sturdily, was very precious to him. His uncle had just sent him two jars of fine West India sweetmeats. One of these he had shared with his companions: the other he had kept, to give to Mrs. Howard, who had once said, in his hearing, that she was fond of West India sweetmeats. She accepted Oliver’s little present. Children sometimes feel as much pleasure in giving away sweetmeats as in eating them; and Mrs. Howard too well understood the art of education, even in trifles, to deny to grateful and generous feelings their natural and necessary exercise. A child can show gratitude and generosity only in trifles.
“Are these all the sweetmeats that you have left, Oliver?” said Mrs. Howard.
“Yes — all.”
“Was not Rousseau wrong, Dr. B.,” said Mrs. Howard, “when he asserted, that no child ever gives away his last mouthful of any thing good?”
“Of any thing good!” said the doctor, laughing; “when I have tasted these sweetmeats, I shall be a better judge.”
“You shall taste them this minute, then,” said Mrs. Howard; and she rang for a plate, whilst the doctor, to little Oliver’s great amusement, exhibited various pretended signs of impatience, as Mrs. Howard deliberately untied the cover of the jar. One cover after another she slowly took off; at length the last transparent cover was lifted up: the doctor peeped in; but lo! instead of sweetmeats there appeared nothing but paper. One crumpled roll of paper after another Mrs. Howard pulled out; still no sweetmeats. The jar was entirely stuffed with paper, to the very bottom. Oliver was silent with amazement.
“The sides of the jar are quite clean,” said Howard.
“But the inside of the paper that covered it is stained with sweetmeats,” said Dr. B.
“There must have been sweetmeats in it lately,” said Mrs. Howard, “because the jar smells so strongly of them.”
Amongst the pieces of crumpled paper which had been pulled out of the jar, Dr. B. espied one, on which there appeared some writing: he looked it over.
“Humph! What have we here? What’s this? What can this he about a lottery? — tickets, price half a guinea — prizes-gold watch! — silver ditto — chased tooth-pick case — buckles — knee-buckles. What is all this? — April 10th, 1797 — the drawing to begin — prizes to be delivered at Westminster school, by Aaron Carat, jeweller? Hey, young gentlemen,” cried Dr. B., looking at Oliver and Charles, “do you know any thing of this lottery?”
“I have no concern in it, sir, I assure you,” said Howard.
“Nor I, thank goodness — I mean, thank you, Charles,” exclaimed Oliver; “for you hindered me from putting into the lottery: how very lucky I was to take your advice!”
“How very wise, you should say, Oliver,” said Dr. B. “I must inquire into this business; I must find out who ordered these things from Mr. Aaron Carat. There shall be no lotteries, no gaming at Westminster school, whilst I have power to prevent it. To-morrow morning I’ll inquire into this affair; and to-morrow morning we shall also know, my little fellow, what became of your sweetmeats.”
“Oh, never mind that,” cried the good-natured Oliver; “don’t say any thing, pray, sir, about my sweetmeats: I don’t mind about them; I know already — I guess now, who took them; therefore you need not ask; I dare say it was only meant for a joke.”
Dr. B. made no reply; but folded up the paper which he had been reading, put it into his pocket, and soon after took his leave.
Lord Rawson was one of those young men who measure their own merit and felicity by the number of miles which their horses can go in a day; he undertook to drive his friend up from Marryborough to Westminster, a distance of forty miles, in five hours. The arrival of his lordship’s gig was a signal, for which several people were in waiting at Westminster school. The stage-coachman was impatiently waiting to demand his money from Holloway. Mr. Carat, the jeweller, was arrived, and eager to settle with Mr. Holloway about the lottery: he had brought the prizes in a small case, to be delivered, upon receiving from Holloway the money for all the tickets of which he had disposed. Dr. B. was waiting for the arrival of Mr. Holloway, as he had determined to collect all his pupils together, and to examine into the lottery business. Little Oliver was also watching for Holloway, to prevent mischief, and to assure him of forgiveness about the sweetmeats.
Lord Rawson’s dog-cart arrived. Holloway saw the stage-coachman as he alighted, and, abruptly turning from him, shook hands with little Oliver, saying, “You look as if you had been waiting for me.”
“Yes,” said Oliver: “but I can’t say what I want to say before every body.”
“I’ll wait upon you presently,” said Holloway, escaping from the coachman. As he crossed the hall, he descried Mr. Carat, and a crowd of boys surrounding him, crying, “Mr. Carat’s come — he has brought the prizes! — he has brought the prizes! he’ll show them all as soon as you’ve settled with him.” Holloway called to the Jew; but little Oliver insisted upon being heard first.
“You must hear me: I have
something to say to you about the prizes — about the lottery.”
The words arrested Holloway’s attention: he followed Oliver; heard with surprise and consternation the history of the paper which had been found in the jar, by Dr. B. “I’ve done for myself, now, faith!” he exclaimed; “I suppose the doctor knows all about the hand I have in the lottery.”
“No,” replied Oliver, “he does not.”
“Why, you must have known it; and did not he question you and Howard?”
“Yes; but when we told him that we had nothing to do with it, he did not press us farther.”
“You are really a noble little fellow,” exclaimed Holloway, “to bear me no malice for the many ill turns I have done you: this last has fallen upon myself, as ill-luck would have it: but before we go any farther — your sweetmeats are safe in the press, in my room; I didn’t mean to steal them; only to plague you, child: — but you have your revenge now.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 379
